


bright red days

by mardisoir



Series: Crush!verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12536612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/mardisoir
Summary: Vignettes, outtakes, and deleted scenes.





	bright red days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Jehanparnasse Week prompt "Acceptance".  
> (tw: mentioned misgendering and transphobia from a minor character)

_I’m having a terrible day, I think I need to cancel tonight. Sorry.  
_

Montparnasse frowns, reading the text over until his phone screen goes dark.   
  
It’s five in the evening, three hours before they’d planned to meet for their date.  
  
_I think I need to cancel._  
  
Wednesday, so Jehan had classes until half past four. They must have just got home.  
  
_I’m having a terrible day._  
  
It would be easy enough to reschedule, to offer commiseration and comfort and make plans for another time. Montparnasse re-opens the message and hesitates, fingers hovering over the keypad, poised to reply.  
  
Instead, he closes it again, and texts Feuilly.

 _whats your address?_  
  
While he waits for a response, he pulls on his coat and picks up his wallet from the nightstand. It's raining outside, a steady drizzle, and he wonders for a moment if that could have added to Jehan's bad day, but a little rain wouldn't be enough to keep them away if they were feeling like themself.  
  
His phone chimes as he's leaving the apartment, Feuilly is as verbose as always.  
  
_why_  
  
Montparnasse pauses on the stairs to reply.  
  
_somethings wrong with jehan_  
  
The phone rings.  
  
“What do you mean, something’s wrong. What did you do?”  
  
Montparnasse rolls his eyes, he probably should have seen that coming. “I didn't do anything, and thank you so much for the vote of confidence.”  
  
Feuilly makes an irritated sound and Montparnasse can hear him moving, leaving the clamour of the kitchen behind him as he slips away to talk. He leans against the wall of the hallway while he waits for him to speak.  
  
“What happened then?”  
  
“They didn't say exactly what, but I got a text saying they’re having a bad day and that they can’t meet up," Montparnasse scuffs the toe of his boot against an old blob of chewing gum stuck to the ragged carpet of the hall. "I just have a weird feeling about it, I want to go over and check on them.”

A door shuts, and then it’s quiet enough that he can hear when Feuilly sighs. “I don't know.”  
  
“Look,” he says, “I’m not trying to be an asshole here. We were supposed to meet for dinner, I just want to pick them up something to eat and make sure they’re ok. I’m not going to force them to spend time with me if they don't want to.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure thats not the issue,” Feuilly admits grudgingly.

“Ok," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "So, I get why you might not want me to have your address, but you know I can find it out through other means if I wanted to. I just thought it would be quicker if you told me.”  
  
There’s a long pause. On the other end of the phone, someone shouts Feuilly’s name.  
  
“Fine,” he says, “I’ll text it to you. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Thank you,” Montparnasse means to sound sarcastic, but it comes out embarrassingly earnest. He’s about to end the call when Feuilly speaks again.  
  
“Parnasse.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“It’s- nice. That you care.”  
  
“Thanks,” he says, awkwardly sincere, and Feuilly hangs up.  
  
The address Feuilly sends is in the nicer part of Montmartre.  
  
They were planning to get Thai for dinner, so Montparnasse calls in at the restaurant on his way over. Then he stops off and picks up dessert from the patisserie he knows is Jehan’s favourite. Then, since he was passing that way already and stealing from them is a breeze, he swings past the wine shop and snags a nice bottle of red.  
  
It’s not until he catches himself eyeing a florist display that he has to stop and remind himself that this is not the date they had planned. This is just… checking up on a friend.  
  
Of course, usually for him checking up on friends occurs only after the spilling of blood or vast quantities of alcohol, so Montparnasse shrugs the comparison off fairly quickly.  
  
He’s trying not to think about that as he walks up the stairs to Jehan’s place, trying not to think about what kind of terrible day they might have had, if he should have actually replied to their text first before calling Feuilly and leaping into action and shit, of course he should have-

Jehan opens the door wearing floral print leggings and an enormous hoodie that may have once belonged to Grantaire, judging by the paint stains splattered up the arms. Their hair is loose and damp and their eyes are red rimmed. 

Montparnasse wants to fall at their feet and stay there forever. It’s possible, he thinks dazedly, that he is in very serious trouble.  
  
“Hello,” Jehan says, clearly surprised to see him.  
  
“Hi,” Montparnasse makes himself smile like his whole world hasn’t just reoriented itself without warning. “I don’t have to stay if you want to be alone, but I thought I’d bring you something to cheer you up,” he holds up the wine and the take out bags.

There’s a long moment of silence where he considers that perhaps coming over unannounced really was a mistake, that he’s crossed some boundary he should have been more conscientious about, but after a minute Jehan makes a wounded noise and flings their arms around his neck.  
  
“Ok,” he says, with a mouth full of hair and Jehan’s cold nose pressed against his collarbone, “I’m just going to come in then?”  
  
He puts the food down by the door and kicks it closed and then, since Jehan doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving from where they’re pressed up against him, he bends down a little and scoops them up. They cling even tighter, wrapping their legs around his waist and clenching their fingers on the back of his shirt.  
  
Montparnasse has never been to Jehan and Feuilly’s apartment before and he isn’t sure which door leads to their room, so he settles them down on the soft, comfy looking love seat.

Jehan is sitting tucked in his lap and ordinarily that alone would be enough to turn his brain to static, but their breaths sound worryingly wet and they’re shaking just a little bit. They don’t move to let go as Montparnasse settles down against the cushions, so he pulls them in closer.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, running a hand soothingly up and down their back.

“Not really,” Jehan mumbles against his shoulder. “Do you think-” they hesitate.

“What?” 

Jehan's back is so tense under his touch, like they're trying to hold themself together through force of will alone. It makes Montparnasse want to hit something. He's aware that's not the healthiest response though, nor the most helpful, so he keeps his hands and breathing steady and just hopes they feel better with him there.  
  
“It's stupid,” Jehan warns and Montparnasse can't stop the contradictory noise that escapes him. Nothing that could upset them this much is stupid, and he tells them so.  
  
“I got in an argument today, during class.” Jehan turns their head so they're speaking into the space under Montparnasse's chin, instead of directly into his shirt. “It was about Romantic nationalism, and I was fully in the right.”  
  
Montparnasse loves when Jehan gets fired up about things, even when he has no idea what it is they're talking about. There's just something about them when they're all lit up with fervour and passion, he can't get enough of it.  
  
“Anyway, this guest lecturer was a close minded bigot-”  
  
“You were arguing with the lecturer?”  
  
“Yes? I mean, they started it.”  
  
“Of course they did,” Montparnasse smiles.   
  
“He asked me to stay behind after, to talk about it. I thought it was to have an actual discussion, you know? But he just wanted to tell me that I was wrong, and an idiot, and-” Jehan's been working their way towards pissed off, but now they shrink in on themself and their voice goes small. “He said that if I ever want to be taken seriously, I should stop dressing up like a girl and demanding that people  _'accommodate my self-importance'.”_    
  
The only reason Montparnasse doesn't clench his fists is because he's been absentmindedly combing his fingers through the length of Jehan's hair, and he doesn't want to hurt them by pulling. “What the fuck.”  
  
“I know,” Jehan says. “I told him to fuck off, naturally, and then I reported him to the university. It shouldn't upset me, it's such a boring, obvious insult. But it got to me. And then I got upset that it worked, that his sad power play was enough to shake me.” They sigh, “I told you it was stupid.”

“Do you want me to kill him?” Montparnasse asks and he’s not joking, not even slightly. He’d do it.Gleefully, with his bare hands. He’s already halfway to a plan for how. Jehan sighs and wriggles even closer, like the scant millimetres of space between them are too much and fuck it, he’s going to do it anyway.  
  
Except, “No,” Jehan says softly. “But thank you for offering.” And they’re not laughing, not treating it like a joke. Maybe they know just how much he means it. But they said no, so. No.  
  
“Ok,” he says, one hand cradling the back of their head, the other clutching tightly at their waist. He presses a kiss to their forehead, their cheek, anywhere he can reach. “Ok.”

“You could maybe key his car or something though,” Jehan says, slightly muffled. “Or, like, slash his tires. If you really wanted to.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he makes a mental note to find out this lecturer's name and address and possibly what kind of car he drives. “I know it's hard not to take it to heart, when people say shit like that to you.” Jehan makes a wordless sound. “But don't ever let them convince you that you'd be better off being anything other than yourself.” There's a vehemence to his words that he tries to soften: he's not angry with Jehan for feeling hurt, he's furious at the world for hurting them. “You're perfect exactly the way you are.”  
  
Jehan leans up and kisses him, tender and slow.   
  
“Thank you,” Jehan says softly when they finally pull away. “I'm glad you came over. I did want to see you, I just-” they trail off.  
  
“Didn’t want to go out?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The tips of their fingers slide under the collar of his t-shirt, tracing over the skin of his neck. He shivers.   
  
“Sorry,” Jehan goes to pull away, but Montparnasse captures their hand and presses a kiss to the back of their fingers before letting them go.  
  
“You don’t have to stop.”  
  
They toy with the soft cotton fabric of the shirt, their other hand sliding over his shoulders. “Can we just stay here for a bit?”  
  
Montparnasse would be happy to sit here with them like this all night, but saying that out loud that feels too difficult, the words get lost somewhere in his chest. So instead he just nods, and slowly, carefully, rearranges them both until they’re lying sideways on the couch, Jehan curled up against his chest.  
  
Abandoned by the door, the food is getting cold. The tart he picked out for after - almond and pear, because Jehan always picks pastries with frangipane - is probably squashed beyond salvaging.  
  
From behind one of the bedroom doors, Jehan’s phone starts to ring. Montparnasse knows it’s theirs, because they’re one of the only people he’s met who still uses the default ringtone options.  
  
“That’s probably Feuilly, making sure I haven’t robbed the place.”  
  
Jehan hums and makes no move to go and retrieve the phone. They press their face against his throat again, and some part of him thinks it should feel like a threat, to have someone this close. To be this open.

It doesn’t, though. It just feels… 

Jehan’s lips are petal soft and their breath is warm and they feel _right_ , lying against him.  
  
There’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this scene very early on when I was drafting OTN and ended up cutting it because I wasn't particularly happy with it, it didn't fit into the narrative and I realised it's actually too similar to 'leave the mourning to the morning'. It's not quite OTN canon, but close enough that I thought I would post it here anyway.


End file.
